


Bloodsport

by thehousewedestroyed



Series: The Real Relationship Was The House We Destroyed Along The Way [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Come Eating, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, Fear Boner, M/M, Marking, Nothing good happens, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Rimming, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-09 14:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehousewedestroyed/pseuds/thehousewedestroyed
Summary: You are not scared of him, you are not scared of anything now except failure.





	

You are not scared of him, you are not scared of anything now except failure. You don't have the luxury of time to be afraid, to hesitate. There is only one path forward for you and you will walk it, one foot in front of the other, with pride and with conviction. It is not as though you have a choice. Any way off this route has been closed to you, and you cannot stop and turn back, not now. Father needs you. Mother needs you. Other people need things _from_ you, and you won't fail them either.

So no, you are not _scared_ of him. If anything, the visceral feeling that jolts inside you whenever you see him is more like repulsion, because he is a beast, a lesser creature, and he doesn't even have the good graces to try to hide it. Like others, he has been visiting the manor frequently over the summer, organising. You are privy to more of it than he is now. You have been brought into the fold and it shows how much the Dark Lord is putting his faith in you, because you are not even sixteen yet. Meanwhile he is kept out of the tightest meetings, as he should be.

You can never trust a werewolf.

But he has his tasks, as you all do. And one of Fenrir's tasks is _you_. 'The Dark Lord says that if Draco needs help, you will give it to him.'

Fenrir Greyback is yours.

*

He finds you alone for the first time in the cottage at the far end of the Manor's gardens.

You ask him how he found you, and he says he smelled you. You are not sure if you believe him.

'Go,' you tell him. You are sitting at the desk in the study, bright and warm light streaming in through the high glass windows, bathing you in sunshine. 'I don't keep company with savage beasts.'

You see him, out of the corner of your eye, grin. It is a sharp thing: his teeth, although human, seem oddly pointed. The effect is uncanny and you shiver, but not with fear. You are not scared of him. You tell yourself this, even as you feel your body tense as he takes a step closer.

He reaches for the back of the leather chair which sits facing your desk, pulling it so that he can sit down. His nails are long, and they dig into the polished leather, threatening to puncture it.

'No!' you say, fast and angry. 'Don't sit there!' (That is your father's seat, it always has been. Even you don't sit in it. No one touches it except for father. He may be in Azkaban _for now_ but it is still his.)

Fenrir takes his hand off the chair, raising an eyebrow. 'Scared to have this _savage beast_ so close, little boy?' he asks. 'You don't have to be. I'm not planning on hurting you.'

'You wouldn't dare,' you spit at him. You nettle at being called _little boy_ , the diminutive so at odds with everything you are being asked to do. 'You're not allowed to touch me. You take my orders, Greyback.'

Fenrir's grin grows wider, sharper. 'Do I?' he says. 'That's news to me.' He is moving now, stepping around behind you so that you would have to turn your neck to be able to keep him in sight. You refuse to do it. You don't have to be afraid to have your back to this beast. Your heart-rate is accelerating, but you will stay in control, and control means not even dignifying him with a look.

You hear him run his claws over the spines of the books in the wall-to-ceiling shelf behind you, and the sound skitters across your skin like spiders.

'I told you to go,' you remind him. 'I'm busy.'

'I thought,' Fenrir says slowly, 'that since we will be working so closely together, I should come offer you my help. If you want it.'

'I don't need anyone's help.' You will do this alone. You need to prove that you can do this alone.

'Didn't say anything 'bout need,' Fenrir says, still from behind you. From closer. Too close. You stiffen even further, fighting the urge to turn in your seat. 'I said "want".' Then he chuckles, and you feel his hand on the back of your chair. With one finger, he starts tapping. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. A fast rhythm that you realise with a jolt is perfectly in time with your own pounding heart. 'Look outside,' he murmurs. 'Sun is shining. Birds are singing. Tonight the moon is just a sliver in the sky.'

You grit your teeth and again, you tell him to go. Again he ignores you. He tells you you don't have to be scared of little old him in the daylight. Then he says, 'Unless… it's not fear.'

'I'm not afraid,' you say, before you catch up to what he's suggesting and your cheeks flush pink. 'And I'm not—'

'What do you want?' he asks, this time almost right into the shell of your ear.

You do startle this time, jerking in your seat and twisting around to glare at him, push him away. 'I want to be left alone!' you shout at him.

Now—now perhaps you are afraid, because you know that no one can hear you if you scream down here, and you both have wands, but he has claws. If he chooses not to leave,  then you will truly be alone here, and this path of yours might just be a little bit shorter than you expected.

But he only takes a step back, and then another, still smiling. His tongue comes out to run across his sharp little teeth. 'If you say so,' he says mildly. He reaches the door, preparing to leave. But he pauses in the frame and blinks at you slowly. 'Let me know when you want me,' he says. 'We are helping each other, after all.'

You are panting slightly, one hand gripping onto the edge of your desk so hard that your knuckles are going white. But you force yourself to steady your breathing, straighten and relax your posture. 'We will conduct business at the Manor,' you tell him primly. 'You will not seek me out here, do you understand?'

He inclines his head and leaves. You watch his back through the window as he crosses the gardens back up to the main house, trying to get yourself under control. Your heart is still thudding, and your cheeks are warm. You notice that his walk, although slightly loping, is curved with a certain… grace. An elegance that you would not have expected.

He wants to push at you. You know this. But you can bring him to heel.

*

The next time you see him is indeed at the Manor. He is talking to your Aunt Bellatrix, in the drawing room. The expression on her face is one of pure disgust. When you enter the room, he seems to freeze, his ears seem to prick and he slowly turns his head to look at you. You force your expression to mirror your aunt's—curled and repulsed—even as your pulse quickens.

You raise your hand and beckon him over with one finger.

'You've been given a pet, Draco?' Bellatrix asks loudly as Fenrir crosses the room to meet you. 'Train it well. I hear it bites.' She snaps her teeth once.

'I think I can handle it,' you reply dryly. You look Fenrir up and down when he reaches you. He is smirking, looking down at you, arms crossed. 'Come,' you tell him. 'I have business to attend to in Knockturn Alley. Your presence will send the right message.'

There is a bookstore in Knockturn Alley which mother has never let you set foot into. _There is nothing in there you need to know, Draco_ , she would say. Father would also hurry you past it with a murmured, 'It would not do us any good to be seen in there.'

It has always been a place of fascination to you. It is nothing like Flourish and Blotts, which is open and bright and full of organised chaos. This bookstore is three storeys high, plus a basement, and so narrow that it seems to be squeezed uncomfortably between the shops on either side. The windows are caked in dust and many of them are blocked out with faded old pages of the Prophet to obscure whatever is within. The interior is a maze of tiny rooms, the walls lined with books, the floor stacked with them. In some sections, they hang from the ceiling like bats.

You are not sure exactly what you are looking for, but you are sure that if there is anywhere that will hold information on how to begin your task, this is it.

Fenrir does not object to you stepping inside. Not like mother, father, or any of the other stifling, overprotective adults in your life. He shadows you around the store, room to room, section to section. Most rooms are empty, but those that are already occupied he snarls low in his throat and clears them for you, so that you may peruse the shelves in privacy.

'Like reading, do you?' he asks after about forty minutes, sounding impatient. You are sitting cross-legged on the floor in a section on cursed objects and the making thereof, a book open on your lap which is making you feel slightly ill as you read it, but is very useful regardless.

You chew on your thumbnail and make a vaguely affirmative sound, deliberately not paying him much attention. 'Just keep the room clear,' you mutter, turning the page. He lets out a grunt of frustration, and you smirk to yourself. There is a pleasure to be taken in making a beast like him wait on you, a leashed dog. You drag it out. Move to a room full of books on potions you've never heard of, the effects of which sicken you enough that you put the tomes away. Move to the basement, where the only light comes from flickering candles and the books seem to whisper to you as you go to take them.

He grabs your wrist down here, strong grip curling around your narrow arm, fingernails digging into your skin. 'Not these,' he says.

You wrench your hand away from him, and he lets it go. You glare at him, steadily meeting his cool, unnaturally clear blue eyes, ringed with black. The candlelight flickers between you. 'I'll read what I need to read,' you say, but you glance around the room and sniff, a shiver running up your spine. 'But fine. Back upstairs.'

You can't help but notice, as you continue to read and research and collect books, that the more impatient he gets with you, the more his attention fixes on you like a knife point. He is not subtle about it. He stares at you with an intensity that feels like he thinks of you as prey. He leans against a wall in one of the top storey rooms, where it is quiet and you are alone, and you are flicking through a simple book of curses with half a mind, most of your attention fixed on the way he licks his lips as he looks at you, rakes his eyes up and down your body.

'Like what you see?' you ask, voice barely above a murmur. If he wants to play this game, you will beat him. You know you are coming into yourself. You have grown over the last year or so, from a skinny boy into a slender young man, and you dress for your station. High collar robes, tight fitting down your arms, lined down your body; covering yourself in dark, severe tones. You are beautiful the way a Malfoy is beautiful. A deadly snake that will make a dog sick if it tries to eat you.

'Shouldn't go asking that if you're not going to want to hear the answer.' Fenrir's voice is low, barely above a growl. He wants to trip you out of your comfort zone, get the upper hand by making you admit that he makes you nervous.

You snort and close the book in your hands with a _thump_. It sends a cloud of dust into the air, and you slide it back onto the shelf. 'I'm ready to go,' you announce, picking up the handful of books you have selected. 'Why don't you follow me downstairs and you can snarl at the shopkeeper for a bit while I haggle these down?'

'And what will I get in return?' he asks.

You raise an eyebrow at him and move to push past him out into the narrow hallway. But he catches you, one arm shooting out lightning quick to block your path, hem you in. He leans in so that you are inches apart, and you start breathing faster, your eyes going wide. 'Sweet, sweet little pup,' he hisses. 'Goes green reading about a few curses. Wants to tease and walk away without a scratch.'

You swallow, and it takes a few tries to speak, your mouth dry and your tongue frozen. But eventually you manage to say (with almost enough confidence), 'Who says I'm teasing?'

It might be a foolish thing to say. For one thing, you _are_ playing with him, and your mouth is carrying you away faster than you are sure you can endure the consequences. But there is no one to stop you. You have stopped telling your mother anything, and father—well, father isn't here. No one can tell you not to do something foolish, except for your own self control. And you are smart and cunning. You can keep this under your thumb—let the werewolf think he might get what he wants from you, for now. For as long as it is useful.

He smiles down at you, eyes cold. With one claw—no, _finger_ , not claw—he gently strokes back a strand of hair that has fallen in your eyes. You shiver, tensing and turning your head away from him.

'Don't make promises you can't keep,' he tells you. Not advice, but a warning. But he lets you pass and you hurry to purchase your books, with a sharp word to the bookseller to tell no one that you were here. Fenrir helps with this, standing behind you like a shadow.

Back at the Manor, you go straight to the cottage at the end of the garden. You are using it as somewhere you can get away, hide from your mother's cautious gaze, work privately on what you are preparing to do. You store your books there, hiding them in a concealed shelf in the study.

Fenrir has followed you. You have not objected, nor have you spoken to him. After you have stashed your books, you turn to him and hold your chin high. 'I may have use of you again soon,' you tell him. You are expecting him to advance on you again, corner you. He has done it twice now, and you have taken him somewhere private again. There is nothing stopping him. This thought thrills through you and the repulsed terror that moves through your body feels an awful lot like an invitation.

But he does not approach. He looks like he is considering it, standing perfectly still and sniffing the air like he has scented prey. He finally says: 'You know how to contact me.' Then he turns, leaves, and you drop down into the lounge chair behind you and tell yourself that the disappointment you feel is relief.

*

Weeks pass. You turn sixteen, somewhere in it all.

Sometimes you take him on errands, sometimes he seeks you out gives you leads and information which may be of use. Sometimes he is just visiting the Manor, like the continuous stream of guests who pass through, using it as one of several safe places to convene and share plans.

And, as much as you are disgusted by him, you find that he fascinates you. And you, in turn, seem to intrigue him. He makes no secret of wanting you, and this alone feels like a heady power. But more than that—and you notice it more in groups, or when you are in public—something flashes in his eyes whenever someone else looks at you, his body moves between you and whatever or whoever he perceives as a threat, and you can tell that he doesn't see you as prey, not anymore; but something to protect.

This should not make you feel good, or safe, or pleased.

Since your father was sent to Azkaban, very little has felt stable. The world has felt uncertain, treacherous, and as though one wrong step, one misfire, one error will send everything you and your family have built for yourselves crashing down. It has made you furious, because this path was not meant to be like this. It was meant to be a wide, protected, easy path on smooth ground.

You begin to look forward to his visits, look forward to the way he takes you aside, traps you somewhere private, sends your heart racing and your blood chilling, and talks to you. He asks you if there is anything you need; or he tells you that he could tear you to pieces if he wanted to. He's unpredictable like that. Sometimes he suggests that he can smell the fear on your sweat, on your skin—and now you know he is lying, because if he could actually do that he would know that your body is prickling with arousal now, rather than fear.

Alright, maybe a little bit of both.

Worse, sometimes he visits the Manor, meets with someone, and leaves again without so much as acknowledging you. This is infuriating. It is one of these times that _you_ corner him, refusing to take being ignored and you tell him, 'Meet me at the cottage tonight.'

His eyes scrape down your body. You are suddenly aware that you are not dressed quite so covered or severe as you usually prefer when you are near him. You are wearing a thin white shirt and comfortable, pressed trousers. You cross your arms, feeling suddenly exposed, and scowl. You are at home. You are allowed to be informal.

'What for?' he asks, grinning.

_I want your attention. I want to know I'm wanted. I don't want to be alone._

'I'm not stupid,' you say. 'I see the way you look at me. I'm not scared of you.'

His laugh splinters your bones with ice. 'Perhaps you should be, love.'

'Do you want it or not?' you snap at him.

‘Give me a little something to tide me over,’ he says, amusement still dancing in his eyes. ‘And so I know I’m not going out of my way for nothing.’

‘Why would I—’

‘Because you like to play games, don’t you? You want to prick and needle until you get a reaction. Well, you’ve got one, pup. But I expect follow through.’

‘I keep my word,’ you say sharply.

‘Prove it.’

‘I—’ You stumble on your words, ready to push him away, shut him down. You don’t like being second guessed, you don’t like someone bargaining from you when you haven’t already planned ahead what you are willing to gamble. But you are already playing with chips you don’t have, so you sigh and say, ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Hold still.’

He takes a step forward and you wouldn’t be able to move even if you were planning to. You suck in air when he gets close enough that you can feel his warm breath on your cheek, and barely suppress a wince when he pries your arm away from your body. He unfolds you like he is unwrapping a gift, moving your arms so that you can't cover yourself and pushing them to your sides. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, but that is worse. You can only feel him panting wetly at against your jaw and you can't see where his hands are going.

You stifle a sob.

'Oh, hush.' He bumps your jaw with his nose, scratches your skin with his stubble, and it might be meant to be something like a kiss, but it's not. Blinking your eyes open, you look past him and breathe as evenly as you can, staring out the window into the sun bathed gardens outside. You have no idea what he is going to do, and images run through your mind of his head turning, moving in and tearing your throat out with his teeth, his hand coming to your neck, ripping, leaving you bleeding.

Nothing like that happens. He just untucks the hem of your shirt from your trousers and slides his hands up over your stomach, traces the shape of your hips, your sides, up to your chest, pushing the shirt up as he goes. Then he steps back with one hand still pressed to your breast bone, keeping your shirt from dropping down, and he looks at you with hungry eyes. With his other hand he reaches out and touches you through your trousers, large palm pressed to the shape of you. You jerk slightly, but not away.

You are hard. You have been since he called you _pup_. He rubs you a few times, until you are grinding into his hand, panting, and darting your eyes left and right, hoping against hope nobody finds you.

Then he drops his hands, letting your shirt fall and letting you jerk against nothing.

'You are going to be quite the treat,' he growls. 'It's a shame to wait until tonight to find out how you taste.'

'Watch it,' you say, frantically tucking your shirt back into your trousers with shaking fingers. 'You still take my orders, and I say when. And you'll behave yourself, beast.'

'Oh, I won't,' he promises. You look at him out of the corner of your eyes, unimpressed. He licks his lips. 'Tonight, then. You've made your choice, remember that.'

*

You expect him to take you like an animal, rough and painful. You expect him to bend you over and enter you without preamble or concern for your welfare, and you spend the whole day thinking about it, wanting it, anticipating it with your whole body.

But instead, he devours you. Nothing has ever felt like this, no one has ever wanted you like this.

There is a bedroom on the second level of the little cottage, slanted wall on one side where the thatched roof cuts into it, dark wood beams across the ceiling. There is one large bed that takes up nearly the whole room, and this is where he takes you apart.

He undresses you like your robes are an affront, like they don't belong on you. He peels off what you are wearing underneath quickly, sharply, nearly tearing them. Then, when you are naked, he puts you on the bed like you are weightless and puts marks all over your body with his mouth. He does it carefully, nowhere that will be seen when you are dressed again; but when he is done with you your chest, stomach, thighs, shoulders, arse are a mottled mess of dark bruises against your pale skin.

By the time he takes your prick into his mouth and sucks you dry, you are nothing but a tense bow of arousal, clutching at the sheets beneath you, clutching at him, begging for release. You fill his mouth and he drinks you down—then, when you have gone boneless and are catching your breath he climbs over you, wanks himself until you reach up to help. He is big enough that your hand can join his on his prick, fingers barely overlapping.

He covers you in spunk, marking you. Your chest, your throat. His other hand is planted next to your head as he curls over you, a huge, hulking figure groaning out his release. To your surprise, as you feel it splatter on your skin, you find yourself smiling.

You haven't smiled in a while.

When he is done, he swipes two fingers through his own spunk, nails lightly scraping your skin, and lifts it up to your mouth.

You pull a face. 'No,' you say. 'Gross.'

'Say ah.'

You push his hand away, but he moves it back and forces it past your lips so that you can taste him, bitter and salty on your tongue. He does it again after that, scooping more onto his fingertips and holding it over your mouth until you roll your eyes and lick them clean.

'What do you say?' he prompts.

You tell him he disgusts you.

'Say _thank you_ ,' he says, feeding you another fingertip of his filth.

Your objection goes unacknowledged, as does anything you say except he wants to hear, until finally you scoff and say, 'Thank you, daddy.'

The last word spills out of you unprompted and unthought, and you slam a hand over your mouth the moment you have said it. But he pries your hand away again, always baring you, exposing you down to your bones and says: 'You're special, you know that? I'll be your daddy, little pup. Is that what you want?'

You shudder, but half of it is with pleasure. You don't answer—just grab his wrist, nudging him to clean up the last of his mess on your neck and bring it to your mouth. You curl your tongue around his fingers and drag it out so that you don't have to speak.

It is uncomfortable afterwards. You are unsure what to do: you have no desire to return to your bedroom in the manor tonight, you would rather just stay here and sleep off the stench of werewolf. But that relies on the werewolf leaving.

'What is this? What are you planning on doing?' you spit after he has spent much too much time proudly cataloguing every bruise and mark he left on your naked body. 'You want to cuddle? Stay the night? Get out.'

Fenrir pulls you into his lap. 'Don't be a brat, whelp,' he admonishes, holding you still as you try to squirm away. Your wand is lying off somewhere with your robes, which sends a much belated spark of alarm through you. You should have had it in reach this whole time. What kind of an idiot are you?

But he does not hurt you, just holds you tight until you stop fighting him. Then he grabs your jaw, nails pricking your cheek, thumb digging into bone a bit too hard, and kisses your forehead. 'Tomorrow night,' he says. 'Here, again.'

It takes you a moment of fighting yourself, but you nod in agreement. Your body wants him again already.

Finally he dresses and departs, and you are left in the enormous, cold bed alone. You cast warming charms on the thin blankets and huddle under them, pressing your hands to your eyes and cursing him and yourself until you fall asleep.

*

The next time, he makes you work for it. Teasing you, playing like you are bothering him, like he doesn’t have time for this. He raises his eyebrows at you, aloof and distant, and at first it makes you want to ignore him right back. Then it makes you try to push him to want you, with sly looks and parted lips. Then it makes you drop to your knees and push between his parted legs and then, _then_ you get what you want —his words of praise, his low voice rumbling that you are good, you drive him crazy, you are his favourite.

The time after that (it’s the middle of the day, the sun is streaming in through the skylight in the cottage bedroom, bathing you both in warmth), he bites you hard enough to break skin. He does it on the inside of your thigh, one hand curled around your cock, and you panic. You scramble up and away from him, spitting angry words at him. Your back hits the headboard, your hand is on your leg, sticky with blood. He is laughing at you.

‘Calm down, pup,’ he says. ‘It’s just a nip.’

He’s right—you are _barely_ bleeding. But your heart is hammering in your chest and you can feel your veins going cold, your head spinning. ‘You’ve—’

‘Are you afraid you’ll be like me, now? Deep breaths. We’ve got…’ (He looks at the sky, perhaps seeing things you don’t see.) ‘Oh, sixteen days until you have to worry about that.’

‘You won’t come _near_ me on that night,’ you snarl at him.

He doesn’t. He visits you plenty of other nights, leading up to the full moon and then following it. But you track the days. The full moon falls on the 30th of July—you mark it like a countdown clock—and he never shows. But he keeps biting little marks on the inside of your thighs, hidden secrets between the two of you, and you start liking it, until the feeling of his teeth sinking into your skin pushes you over the edge every time.

They don’t heal. They don’t bleed, but they also don’t close or heal over, no matter what you do to them. You steal Dittany from your mother’s medicine cabinet but it does nothing. Fenrir tells you they are cursed bites, and they will stay like this forever.

‘No one else,’ he tells you, ‘will be able to touch you without knowing you are mine.’

‘Oh.’ You frown. ‘Okay.’

You should probably be more upset by that than you are. You keep half-convincing yourself that every time with Fenrir is the last. Eventually you’ll be right. But the future is an intangible thing, full of things you know and things you don’t know and things you have to do. There is no space in there to be hoping for anyone else.

Fenrir is pleased by your response, stroking your hair so that you relax into him. ‘We're the same, we are,’ he says.

You scoff. ‘No.’

‘We surround ourselves with people who think they're better than us because we have to, to get what we want. But they'll never do anything except use us. So we need to protect each other, stick together.’

‘I am better than you,’ you tell him. ‘I am nothing like you. No one is using me.’

‘Lie to them,’ he says. ‘But don't you bother lying to me.’

*

Your plans are slowly crystallizing. You are working harder than you ever have over a summer before, spending most of your time reading the books you acquired in Knockturn Alley and ruminating on the puzzle of your cabinet. It is almost satisfying, if you only look one step ahead at a time—one thing to learn, one challenge to needle out.

Fenrir finds it very amusing how studious you are. He has taken to watching you work, taken to sitting in your father’s chair (even though you told him not to) and eyeing you as you curl over your desk, books open, quill in hand. You would think he must have something better to do, if he weren’t a werewolf. What use is he to anyone, except one night a month—and to you, as protector?

You occasionally still have him accompany you to places your mother does not know you go, to stand watchfully at your back and snarl at anyone you want him to. You acquire more texts, more equipment, more ingredients. Things you will need to hide thoroughly, lest they be found.

As your return to school draws closer, your focus shifts to anticipation, which shifts to apprehension, which shifts to panic. Strangely, the more it scratches at your skin and eats inside you, the better you get at putting on a calm face for mother and for the others.

It feels like he is the only one who can see you for what you are: scared. You hate him for it, but he is very good at distracting you.

The last time you are together, it starts with you telling him to go. The sun is low in the sky, evening fading into night, and you know what tonight is.

‘I'll go before the moon rises,’ he promises. ‘There's enough time for a shag.’

‘I don't trust you,’ you reply, even as you let him in, your mouth twisted in a frown.

‘Good call,’ he concedes. He smacks your arse. ‘C’mon pup, don't have all night. Upstairs.’

In spite of his words, he sure acts as though you have all the time in the world. Tomorrow is your last day before you go back to school, and you tell him this, although you're not sure why. It's probably the closest thing to a goodbye you will do.

‘Aw.’ He starts to undress you. ‘Guess we'll make the most of this then.’ Pushing your robes off your shoulders so that they pool on the ground, he hooks a finger in the front of your shirt, sharp nail threatening to rip.

'Do it,' you say. He pulls and tears. There is clattering sound as the little nacre buttons scatter on the hardwood floor. Leaning down to affix his mouth to your neck, he growls and pulls at the rest of your clothes like an animal, getting them off as fast as possible with no regard for their state. You arch up into him, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his broad back. 'Don't—daddy, not there,' you gasp, worried he's going to mark your skin where mother will see it.

It seems to take effort for him to pull away. Maybe it has something to do with the moon. It may not have risen yet, but it is affecting him already. He seems wilder, less controlled than usual—which is impressive, since he never seems like anything less than a beast. Biting his lip, he looks down at you with dark eyes and for a moment, you swear you see a flash of gold. A reflection, almost certainly, from the sunset outside.

'Be _quick_ ,' you tell him, pulling his robes off. 'I want you gone before it gets dark.'

He grins. 'You scared, pup? Haven't been scared of me in a while. It's nice. Flattering.'

He's wrong. 'I was never scared of you,' you lie. _I never stopped being scared of you._

Taking both of your hands in his wrists, he brings them forward, prompting you to unbutton his trousers for him. You do it, looking down, your fingers deft. You undress him as quickly as you can, and he mostly lets you—but he doesn't let you do it as fast as you would like, interrupting you to move you back towards the bed, or grab and kiss and nip at your fingertips, or press all the nails of his hand into your throat and hold you there, looking at you intently.

When you are finally both naked, he turns you around with a large hand on the small of your back, and pushes you forward onto your knees on the bed. You spread your legs and push your arse in the air, presenting yourself to him, thinking you're surely going to get what you've been waiting for all this time: the brutal, animalistic fuck you want. None of this deliberate taking you apart where he leaves you burning with sensation for longer than you can bear. You want him to be selfish with you, like you are selfish with him. Take you, claim you, make it hurt.

His hand strokes down to shape the curve of your back and then squeeze your arse. There's not much to squeeze. You know you are bony and sharp, but he doesn't seem to mind, fingers digging in and pulling you open so that he can see you. You bury your face in your arms, flushing hard, and moan as his finger comes out to touch the rim of your hole. He encircles it, once, with the pad of his finger and you clench against him, anticipating him pushing inside, dry.

But no. Instead he climbs up onto the bed behind you, nudging you forward with his hands and knees, so that he can sit between your legs and examine you. He does it slowly, not touching except to expose you. Every second feels agonisingly weighted, and the longer he goes without _doing anything_ , the faster your heart thuds in your chest.

'Please,' you say.

'Onto begging already?' He runs his thumb down the crack of your arse, pressing it against your hole. 'You could stand to learn a little something 'bout patience, pup

'Or you could fuck me,' you say, glancing up over your arms to look out the window, where the daylight has gone, now.

'I'm not going to,' he says. 'I'm going to eat you.'

Your pounding heart seems to not beat at all for a moment until you catch his meaning—and by then, he's already leaning in and nudging his nose between your arse cheeks and dragging his tongue over your hole, flat and wet.

'Oo-oh,' you manage, your voice sounding high and broken to your own ears. 'That's—that's disgu—'

He breathes out a laugh against you, hot breath gusting over your arse. 'Trust me, I've had worse things in my mouth.'

You pull a face, because it's probably true and you've let him put that mouth all over your body.

The main thing that stops you from arguing with him on this is the fact that the more you object to something, the more he fixates on it, and if you want this to go quickly you're better off just letting him have his fill before he moves onto things that will actually get you both off before the bloody moon appears in the sky.

However, his taste for you seems unquenchable. You lose track of time, he spends so long burying his face between your cheeks, lapping at your hole, pushing his tongue inside. 'St-stop —' you plead, again and again, pushing back against him, spreading your legs for him. Your cock hangs heavy between your legs, neglected, but he devours you with such focus and determination that all you want to do is jerk your hips, thrust into nothing until you come from his tongue alone.

He won't let you. If you move too much he grabs your legs, holds you still, and pushes his tongue deeper, grazing you with stubble, licking as much of you as he can. You whine and plead with him, but he keeps going.

Sometimes he pulls back and just traces little shapes around the outside of your hole with the tip of his tongue. These times, you hope he is getting ready to finish with this, take you properly—you're ready, Merlin, you are ready. But you also sob at the loss, twitch, open yourself up for him as much as you can, your body begging for a completely different thing than your mouth—and he dives back in with fervour.

And the night keeps darkening. You haven't lit any of the lights in this room, so the deepening shadows are marked whenever you manage to open your eyes. The whole room is shrouded in them now, painted grey in dusky starlight.

'Daddy, you're going to—' you grit out between your teeth, tipping even more onto the bed so that your chest and face are pressed into the sheets, arse straight up in the air, thighs shaking.

He pulls back enough to say, 'You don't have to worry. I know what I'm doing.' Then he tongues you open again, groaning into you. You moan, so loud that it's almost a howl, and shudder. You can feel your prick leaking. He hums his approval against you.

He is going to drive you insane. He is going to kill you. If not by ripping you to shreds, just from this alone. Your heart is a hammer inside your chest, you are gulping down air, and he is going to keep you like this for _hours_ —perhaps already has, you have no idea anymore.

The light streaming in through the skylight is starting to take on a silvery hue, and desperately you try to wriggle away from him, determined to escape this torture and sit on him, suck him down, do whatever it takes to _finish this_ and get him out. But he doesn't let you.

With a preternaturally strong hand, he pushes you down so that your hips slam onto the mattress, you cock trapped between your belly and the sheets, and he grabs both your wrists to trap them behind your back and pins you down with one hand, the other pulling your arse cheeks apart so he can keep lapping at you. You shout at him, curse and swear and cry—but you can't help it. Your anger breaks into moans and panted keens after only a few moments of his tongue laving at you, and you have friction on your prick now, and it's enough that with a few rolls of your hips you are crashing towards the edge.

'I'm going—fuck, daddy, I'm going to—'

'Good boy,' he growls, pulling back and replacing his tongue with two quick, rough fingers. He crooks them inside you, feeling out that spot that makes you scream, and then—right as you crash over the edge, sinks his teeth into the inside of your thigh.

The pain shoots through you like it always does, another cursed bite. It stings in time with the pulsing of your orgasm, your cock throbbing and spilling, trapped underneath you. You shake hard, squeezing your eyes tight shut and sobbing through the pleasure.

Then—as the last of it spills out of you, you feel the pain in your leg sharpen, deepen. Fenrir is moving behind you. No, not moving—shifting, his teeth growing to daggers in your thigh.

He is not holding you in place anymore. Slowly, the teeth come out, and you are free.

Struggling for breath, you push yourself up, your body weak from orgasm. You are scared to turn around, but you can see through the window, the shape of the silver moon glinting through the low clouds.

You stay perfectly still and you know that this, this is how you die—naked and alone with a werewolf, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Long seconds pass. Nothing happens.

Blood is leaking from the wound in your thigh and you have to move from how you are sitting. Whimpering, you force yourself to turn around and face the wolf.

Golden eyes meet yours, teeth bared in a growl. He is huge and terrifying and—almost to your surprise—you can still see Fenrir looking back at you. And that's when you know. He's already gotten what he wants from you. He's not going to kill you now.

You slump back against the bed head, pulling your injured leg in close to you and sobbing. The wolf takes a step backward, and then another, snarling, before turning and prowling out of the room. The front door downstairs is still open.

After long minutes, you hear a howl outside, and you plead to yourself _don't go to the manor, don't go the manor_.

But his howls seem to fade into the distance, in the other direction. You squeeze your eyes shut.

You begin to plan before you can even begin to process the truth. You will tell no one. You will learn how to make the potion that you need—in a month? No, you will tell _one_ person, and you will make him take the vow. This doesn't need to change anything. You have the room where no one can find you, you will hide there. With the potion, and the room, no one need know. No one needs to know.

You tell this to yourself over and over again, unmoving, until you have to do something about the bite. You pull yourself to the bathroom, clean it, wrap it in linens and do your best to heal what you can, which is not much. From there, you ignore it.

You will sleep.

No one needs to know.

He will not return.

No one needs to know.


End file.
